


Bitten

by malinaldarose (coralysendria)



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trope Bingo Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/malinaldarose
Summary: In the episode "Snakebite," Johnny gets bitten by a rattlesnake and has to treat himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since Trope Bingo Round Eight is an Amnesty round, this will serve as a fill for the Hurt/Comfort square on my Round Seven card.
> 
> This was beta'd by Bethynyc.

As Tractor 2, with Chet and Marco clinging to the outside, rumbled up the hill as fast as its operator could push it, John cursed his bad luck. He _would_ manage to run into the only rattlesnake stupid enough to try to shelter under a crashed car. Why wasn't the damn thing under a rock where it belonged? Maybe the tractor's descent through the brush to the crash site had disturbed it? It didn't matter, he supposed. What was important now was to keep his heart rate and respiration as even as he could. He concentrated on that for a moment. Man, he wished his partner were here right now, but Roy was probably most of the way to Rampart with their three patients. The cap and the rest of the guys would do their best to help, he knew, but _he_ was the paramedic, and so treatment was going to depend on him.

Swell.

Speaking of which.... Yes, definitely swelling and redness ( _edema_ , his training whispered, _erythema_ ); there was venom in the wound, but he had no way of knowing how much. He'd slashed his leg with his pocket knife as soon as he was out of range of the snake, but it had been too late, and he'd known it. He ran through everything he knew about treating rattler bites as the tractor crawled on.

It didn't take as long as it seemed to crest the hill; once the tractor was flat on the fire road again, the engine crew each grabbed a limb and carried him to the rig, trying to keep him as flat as possible. There was one bad moment when his bitten leg was higher than his heart, but there was no help for it; he had to get up there somehow. While the guys settled him on the rig's coiled hoses, he concentrated on his breathing. Slow. Even.

Miraculously, the cap already had Rampart on the line via dispatcher relay. In a way, it was nice to have this much help: Marco was readying the IV for him, the cap helped get the blood pressure cuff positioned correctly, Chet was at his other side to lend a hand, and after helping get him up on the rig, Mike had jumped down and was sitting in the cab awaiting the word to go. When John and Roy went out on their own, they usually had to manage with just their own four hands. Concentrating on his job, weird as it was to be taking his own pulse and blood pressure, further helped calm him. Rule number one: don't get emotionally involved with the patient.

It was the insertion of the IV he was dreading. Not even Roy knew how much he hated needles. Deft as he was with patients, on himself the angles would be all wrong, and boy would he feel any mistakes. That would not help his heart rate. Unfortunately, an IV was necessary, and he was still the only paramedic available, so as soon as Rampart authorized it, he steeled himself to do it.

He tightened the blood pressure cuff to make the vein stand out, while steadying his arm against his upraised left leg. He took a deep breath...and the needle slid easily into place, surprising him. Oh, it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the burning in his doubly-wounded right leg. With the IV started, there was nothing left for him to do, so after giving the cap the word to move out, he relaxed back against the coiled hoses. With the immediate pressure off, he was beginning to feel sleepy. There was a tingly numbness in his lips, too -- both bad signs.

The rig rumbled to life and began to move, the siren blaring. If one _had_ to ride on top, the hoses made a surprisingly comfortable bed. At least they cushioned his leg as the engine jounced over the fire roads. Still, it was a relief when they turned onto paved road and the ride smoothed out.

Thirty minutes to Rampart. He put his elbow over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He could do this. A request was relayed from the hospital for his condition. "The patient," he reported into his handie-talkie, "is drowsy and has numbness around the lips." _The patient._ He'd have laughed at that except for two things: it would've weirded out Chet who was riding with him atop the rig, and it would've come out as slightly hysterical giggling. If his partner were here, he might give in to the impulse, at least a little. Roy would understand. Chet, though.... He clamped his teeth on the laugh and concentrated on the burning in his leg for a moment.

Chet was applying suction to the wound, but John didn't think it would help at this point; the venom was moving too quickly. Damn snake must've managed to hit a vein. His vision was starting to grey out, and he was pretty sure he was going to pass out before they got to Rampart. Chet kept shooting him worried looks when he thought John wouldn't notice, so for Chet's sake, he held onto consciousness by his fingernails.

But that was all he could do. He put his arm back over his eyes. His handie-talkie was still lying on his chest; he heard the cap report that they were fifteen minutes out. He cursed his own idiocy; if he hadn't left the damn handie-talkie behind, he wouldn't have been bitten going back to retrieve it. 

"Nearly there, Johnny," Chet said. "Hang on."

"I'm here, Chet," he said. "I'm here. I'll be okay."

"Of course you will. I'm here to take care of you," Chet said. His eyes belied his cheeky grin. He was still working the little suction device occasionally, watching John closely. John thought about telling him to stop the suction, but it wasn't really hurting him any more than the bite already did. Besides, it gave Chet something to concentrate on other than feeling helpless. It was the equivalent of telling an incipient father to go boil water. He almost laughed again -- even when _he_ was the victim, he was still thinking like a paramedic, trying to keep the people at the scene calm.

"Who's driving the squad, Chet?"

The worry deepened on Chet's face. "Cap told Marco to bring it in. Didn't you hear him?"

"Nah," John said. "I was concentrating on the patient."

"Figures." Chet rallied for a moment. "Always thinking about yourself."

"Someone's got to," John said. "Might as well be me, right?"

"I suppose."

The numbness was spreading, and the pain in his leg was getting worse. God, he hoped Rampart had some antivenin ready -- and that he wasn't allergic to it. His arm fell away from his eyes; his sight was so dim at this point that it didn't matter, anyway. He had to stay conscious, though. For Chet. For the patient. Stay conscious.

"Hey, Chet." He didn't like the effort it was taking to speak. He should have Chet relay that to Rampart, but Brackett would just tell him to shut the hell up, then. If it was Brackett, of course. Could be Early or Morton.

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Would you call Marcia for me? I think I'm going to miss our date tomorrow."

"Marcia? What the heck happened to Peggy?"

"Peggy?" John thought about that for a moment; it was like wading through molasses. "Haven't seen Peggy in weeks."

"Honestly, I can't keep up with all your girls," Chet complained. "How do you keep finding them, anyway? And when are you going to send some my way?"

"Can't help it if they like me," John said. "I'm very likeable."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Johnny. You just keep telling yourself that."

Shouldn't they be there by now? He blinked and turned his head, trying to make out what buildings they were passing, but he wasn't seeing very well. His leg wasn't painful any longer. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Chet -- I'm going to pass out before we get to the hospital."

"You can't do that to me, Johnny. I'm not Roy -- I don't know what to do."

"No help for it." John could hear the slurring in his speech. He felt like he was hanging from the edge of a cliff. He had no safety line, and below his dangling feet there was only darkness. "Can't hang on. Venom must be in a vein."

"Stay with me, Johnny. We're nearly there."

"Chet. When I pass out, let Rampart know." His fingers closed clumsily on the handie-talkie and he pushed it toward Chet. "They may want vitals."

"Johnny, man, I don't know how to do that."

"You can do pulse...and respiration. You know those."

Chet nodded. "Okay, yeah. I can do those. But I won't have to, right?"

"Jus' tell 'em patient passed out, and give 'em vitals if they ask." He squinted at Chet, but didn't really see him. "You're okay, Chet, you know that?"

"Yeah, Johnny. Just stay with me."

"I'm tryin'. No guarantees." He closed his eyes again, but opened them right away; he wouldn't be able to stay conscious otherwise. The patient needed him to stay conscious.

It seemed like hours later when he felt the rig turn. The siren stopped.

"We're here, Johnny," Chet called. "We're at the hospital."

With a sigh, John closed his eyes, and finally allowed himself to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily episode-centric. It is also my first foray into this fandom. I started watching _Emergency!_ (love the exclamation point) in mid-December for the nostalgia factor; it's one of the first shows I can remember being aware of as a child. (Yes, I'm old.) When I got to this episode ("Snakebite"), it somehow lodged itself in my brain and wouldn't leave. I was supposed to be writing something else completely (with a deadline, no less) and couldn't concentrate on it until I wrote this. As soon as I did, I was able to finish my other project.
> 
> Regarding "John" vs. "Johnny" -- I have now made it through the entire series, and Johnny didn't actually refer to _himself_ as "Johnny." He always introduced himself as "John"...except maybe to a couple of pretty nurses. It was _everybody else_ , who called him by his nickname.


End file.
